Thom Gunn
Misanthropos
to Tony Tanner and Don Doody
2
At last my shout is answered! Are you near,
Man whom I cannot see but can hear?
Here.
The canyon hides you well, which well defended.
Sir, tell me, is the long war ended?
Ended.
I passed no human on my trip, a slow one.
Is it your luck, down there, to know one?
No one.
What have I left, who stood among mankind,
When the firm base is undermined?
A mind.
Yet, with a vacant landscape as its mirror,
What can it choose, to ease the terror?
Error.
Is there no feeling, then, that I can trust,
In spite of what we have discussed?
Disgust.
5
Green's overtaking green, it's
endless; squat grasses creep up,
briars cross, heavily weighed
branches overhang, thickets
crowd in on the brown earth gap
in green which is the path made
by his repeated tread, which,
enacting the wish to move,
is defined by avoidance
of loose ground, of rock and ditch,
of thorn-brimmed hollows, and of
poisoned beds. The ground hardens.
Bare within limits. The trick
is to stay free within them.
The path branches, branches still,
returning to itself, like
a discovering system,
or process made visible.
It rains. He climbs up the hill.
Drops are isolate on leaves,
big and clear. It is cool, and
he breathes the barbarous smell
of the wet earth. Nothing moves
at the edges of his mind.
to Tony Tanner and Don Doody
2
At last my shout is answered! Are you near,
Man whom I cannot see but can hear?
Here.
The canyon hides you well, which well defended.
Sir, tell me, is the long war ended?
Ended.
I passed no human on my trip, a slow one.
Is it your luck, down there, to know one?
No one.
What have I left, who stood among mankind,
When the firm base is undermined?
A mind.
Yet, with a vacant landscape as its mirror,
What can it choose, to ease the terror?
Error.
Is there no feeling, then, that I can trust,
In spite of what we have discussed?
Disgust.
5
Green's overtaking green, it's
endless; squat grasses creep up,
briars cross, heavily weighed
branches overhang, thickets
crowd in on the brown earth gap
in green which is the path made
by his repeated tread, which,
enacting the wish to move,
is defined by avoidance
of loose ground, of rock and ditch,
of thorn-brimmed hollows, and of
poisoned beds. The ground hardens.
Bare within limits. The trick
is to stay free within them.
The path branches, branches still,
returning to itself, like
a discovering system,
or process made visible.
It rains. He climbs up the hill.
Drops are isolate on leaves,
big and clear. It is cool, and
he breathes the barbarous smell
of the wet earth. Nothing moves
at the edges of his mind.